The Devil's Slave: A Novel

By Tracy Borman

The acclaimed author of The King’s Witch continues her epic trilogy of Jacobean England as conspiracy haunts the court of King James.

In the court of King James, lady-in-waiting Frances Gorges was suspected of witchcraft for her healing skills. But when her lover was executed for his role in the Gunpowder Plot, she fled for her life—and that of her unborn child. Now Frances is compelled to return to the dissolute and dangerous court to marry Sir Thomas Tyringham, King James’s master of hounds, who has agreed to assume paternity of her son.

Meanwhile, whispers of conspiracy continue to echo through the royal palace. Against this perilous backdrop, Frances reunites with her former mistress, the Princess Elizabeth, as well as other less friendly members of the court: Prince Henry, the unscrupulous heir to the crown; Lord Cecil, eager to persecute Frances as a witch; and King James himself, ever more paranoid and cruel towards alleged traitors. But she also discovers a surprising new ally: Sir Walter Raleigh, himself a prisoner in the tower of London. As he makes his intentions known, Frances again finds herself caught in a web of secrets, promises, and plots.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Sep 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9780802129468

Book preview

PART 1

1606

PROLOGUE

7 April

The amber seemed to glow as Frances held it up to the candle that burned on her dresser. The beads were perfectly smooth and round, yet as the light shone through them, she could see the myriad dark flecks and shadows that made each one unique.

The rosary had been a gift from Queen Anne, who had slipped it quietly into her hands as Frances had taken her leave from court. ‘Keep faith,’ she had whispered, bending forward to kiss Frances on both cheeks. As she slowly threaded the beads through her fingers now, Frances wondered if Anne, too, would continue to abide by the faith that had bound her to the plotters – had made her countenance the murder of her husband and son. If so, then she would need to employ even greater discretion than usual. She knew that Cecil suspected the queen of involvement in the Powder Treason, as they were calling it, and would not rest until he had secured the proof.

Frances reached into the small linen purse that was concealed in the folds of her dress and drew out the letter. She had kept it with her ever since it had arrived three days earlier, not daring even to leave it in the locked casket where she kept her most precious herbs and tinctures. Slowly unfolding it, she read it again.

Lady Frances,

I know you were a good friend to my late brother Thomas. He spoke of you often, and in terms of great affection. His loss must be as great to you – greater, even – as it is to those of his family who still draw breath. To have lost two brothers as well as my husband John is almost more than I can bear, though I hear that they all died bravely. I thank God that I have my precious boy. I have named him Wintour, to preserve our family name. I wish that you had the same consolation.

Instinctively, Frances’s hand moved to her belly, which she stroked distractedly as she resumed reading.

It is beholden upon those of us who remain to honour their memory by continuing to further the cause for which they died. Lady Vaux assures me that you can be trusted as a supporter of the true faith, and that you enjoy great favour with Her Royal Highness Princess Elizabeth. You must return to court as soon as possible. It is there that you can do most good for our cause. No matter how much you love Longford Castle – Tom told me it is dear to your heart – your love for him must surely be greater. I urge you, therefore, to make this sacrifice for his sake. I wish I could do the same, but I am now sole mistress of Norbrook and cannot leave my child at so tender an age. Though you will be returning to a place of danger, you will not be friendless. Lady Vaux tells me that there are many great persons there who conspire to return this kingdom to the Catholic fold. I beg you, make haste.

Your loving friend,

Dorothy Wintour

Frances’s hands shook as she refolded the letter and slid it carefully back into the purse. She had never met Tom’s sister, and he had rarely spoken of her – anxious, no doubt, to avoid implicating her in his plans. How had she known to write to her here? Lady Vaux must have enquired after her upon arriving at court – she was tenacious enough to do so. Or perhaps there were others there, besides the queen, who still watched her movements. The thought made her shudder.

I urge you to make this sacrifice for his sake.

The words sounded in her ears, but it was Tom who spoke them. She had heard them many times since the letter had arrived. She knew she should burn it, but somehow this single piece of paper seemed the only trace of him that was left to her. The thought of returning to court filled her with dread, and hers was not the only life to consider now. Surely Tom would not wish it, if he knew of the precious burden she carried. No. She would remain here at Longford, raise their child in the safety and comfort of her beloved home.

But how much longer would it be her home?

Frances pushed away the unwelcome thought. For as long as her parents lived, they would never allow Edward to turn his sister out of Longford, even though she threatened to bring shame upon the family. She knew that their father disapproved of his heir’s haughty behaviour – even more so of the Protestant doctrine he had spouted since his arrival at Longford. Frances suspected that her brother cared little for spiritual matters but had an eye to preferment at court. Please God, her parents would leave Richmond and return here themselves soon enough. Even as she mouthed the silent prayer, she knew it was unlikely to be answered. The king, capricious as ever, had made clear that he wished to retain her parents at Richmond, though he could have little need of them there. As Marchioness of Northampton and the old queen’s closest favourite, her mother Helena deserved better – as did her father, Lord Thomas Gorges, who had the blood of the powerful Howard family coursing through his veins.

With a sigh, Frances stood, walked slowly over to the bed and pulled back the covers. Although her limbs sagged with fatigue, she had little desire to climb into it, knowing it would offer no repose. Instead, she would lie there for hours, as she had every night since Tom’s death, waiting for the dawn.

CHAPTER 1

18 April

Frances drew a sharp breath as she lowered her feet through the icy water until they brushed against the smooth pebbles of the riverbed. Her skin looked white, almost translucent, beneath the surface.

A tiny fluttering in her stomach made her sit up straight on the grass. She laid her hands gently over it and waited. There was the movement again, stronger this time. She smiled, then stroked the neat, warm swelling that lay beneath the stiff fabric of her dress. Ellen had been obliged to loosen her stays last week, and though her body was still slender, there was no longer any disguising her growing belly.

The surge of joy she had felt when the child moved dissipated as she recalled the angry words she had exchanged with her brother Edward the night before. He had returned to Longford the previous summer, having at last completed his studies in Cambridge. She guessed that Theo, who was still there, had proved something of a distraction. With just a year separating her two brothers, they had always been close. She could remember many occasions when, as children, they had run off into the woods straight after breakfast, only returning as the light was fading. Her mother had chided them for missing their lessons, and for their dishevelled state, cuts and grazes on their skin, their fine linen shirts spattered with mud.

How different Edward was now. Frances had noticed the change as soon as she had arrived two weeks before. It wasn’t so much physical – though he had certainly grown into a tall, muscular young man – but rather in his manner. There had been something distant in the way he had bent to kiss her, his eyes coolly appraising. As the second son, he had enjoyed a carefree youth, with no expectations of inheritance. But the death of their elder brother, Francis, had changed that. Edward, then aged seventeen, had shared his siblings’ shock and grief, but Frances would always recall seeing excitement in his eyes, even as their father told them the news, his voice cracked with sorrow.

Edward had left for Cambridge soon afterwards, and Frances had seen little of him, or her three other brothers, since. But now it was clear that he revelled in his status as heir to the Longford estate.

Her thoughts were disturbed by a movement at the edge of her vision – her old nurse, Ellen, walking slowly over the bridge. She stopped to rub her back, then plodded on, wincing at the pain in her hip. It had grown a good deal worse since Frances had last seen her almost two years before. Ellen had been standing on the threshold of the castle as Frances’s carriage had made its steady progress along the drive a fortnight ago. Frances had felt the bones of Ellen’s shoulders as her nurse had embraced her. She had tried to hide her dismay at the sight of Ellen’s grey hair and pinched, sagging skin. In those two years, she had become an old woman.

It seemed to Frances as if a lifetime had passed since she had last sat here by the Avon, in the shade of her beloved home. She herself had changed, she knew. How naïve – arrogant, even – she had been when she had first arrived at Whitehall Palace a year after King James’s accession. Despite her mother’s warning, she had made little effort to conceal her skills at healing, as if the herbs could somehow protect her from the evil that pervaded the new king’s court. She had soon learned, to her cost, that they were as nothing against his perverted obsessions or the twisted schemes of his closest adviser.

Cecil.

Frances felt the familiar loathing at the thought of the king’s crook-backed minister. He had been a constant, menacing presence throughout her time at court. Even in the privacy of her lodgings, she had felt his eyes upon her. He had conspired in her arrest for witchcraft, had watched, impervious to her screams, as the torturer had searched her body intimately for the Devil’s Mark. She remembered the elation she had felt upon hearing that Tom and his fellow plotters had succeeded: that Cecil had been blown to the heavens, along with the king and his entire parliament. But the news had proved false. Fawkes had been discovered with the gunpowder just hours before the lords assembled in the ancient hall above.

Frances shook her head as if to dispel the thoughts that she knew would follow. Of Tom, his body racked with pain, being pulled along to his death.

‘Wintour looked as pale as a dead man when he mounted the scaffold,’ she had heard someone say as, a few days later, she had hastened through the public rooms of the palace, desperate to avoid the subject that was on everyone’s lips.

‘Fear makes cowards of us all,’ another had responded. Frances had rounded on them then, all of the grief she had tried to contain spilling out in her fury.

‘Are you well, my lady?’

Ellen’s brow was creased with concern. She was breathing heavily from the exertion of her walk. Frances gave a weak smile of reassurance. ‘Do not trouble yourself, Ellen. I am quite well, thank you.’

Her gaze moved to the basket that the older woman had set down upon the grass. ‘Were you able to find the willow bark, and the hyssop?’ she asked.

Ellen nodded as she sank down next to her. ‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘though I searched in the woods a long time. My eyes are not as sharp as they were, so I had to stoop down on my knees.’ She kneaded them as she spoke.

Frances suppressed her impatience. ‘I am sorry for it, Ellen, but with the herbs you have gathered I will make you a salve to ease your aching limbs.’ She paused. ‘I wish I could have gone myself.’

Ellen clicked her tongue in disapproval. ‘And risk your secret being discovered?’ she demanded, then gave a sigh and reached over to pat Frances’s hand. ‘You know you must have a care, now that your young knave is starting to show himself.’ Her voice was softer now.

‘It might be a girl,’ Frances pointed out.

Ellen shook her head. ‘Not when you carry the child like that, all at the front.’

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments. Frances watched as a hawk circled over the woods, dipping down now and again as it sought its prey. How she longed to be among the ancient oaks, to smell the sweet scent of the primroses, which she knew would be in bloom now. Though she cherished her home, it had felt more like a prison this past week. She chided herself for the thought. Her only solace during the long days and nights that followed Tom’s death had been the prospect of returning to Longford. Now she was here, yet the restlessness and misery still hung over her.

‘The pain of parting will lessen in time,’ Ellen said, as if reading her thoughts. Frances opened her mouth to reply, but the older woman continued: ‘I do not ask you to name him. I respect your parents’ wishes, and would not vex you by pressing the matter – not for the world. Whatever the reason you have returned here unmarried, yet with child, I will not attempt to discover it. I want only to care for you, when the time comes—’ She broke off, her eyes glistening with tears.

Frances swallowed her own. She had wept so much these past weeks that she wondered there could be any tears left. But soon she must go in for dinner, and she was determined to avoid her brother’s scorn by concealing her grief.

‘Thank you, Ellen,’ she said quietly. ‘You have always been like a mother to me, and I have missed you sorely since we were parted at Whitehall.’

‘And I have fretted about you endlessly, my lady,’ the old woman replied, her forehead furrowed with deep lines. ‘The court is a good deal more dangerous since King James took our old queen’s throne. There are many who would rejoice to see him murdered.’

‘Hush, Ellen,’ Frances remonstrated, her voice low. ‘You know it is treason to speak of such things.’

Her old nurse gave an indignant sniff. ‘I hated to think of you in that place, friendless and alone, while plots gathered about the king. When news reached us of the Powder Treason last November, I begged your brother to bring you home. But he would have none of it.’

Frances gave a sardonic smile. ‘I am sure he did not wish to upset the king by taking away his daughter’s favourite attendant,’ she said quietly. ‘Besides, Ellen, I was neither alone nor friendless. The princess was a kind and loving mistress and, though still a child, an excellent companion. There were others, too.’

She fell silent, then took the old woman’s hand and smoothed her thumb over the swollen joints. A little marjoram and a few sprigs of rosemary ground with the willow bark Ellen had gathered would make enough paste to ease the discomfort.

With a sigh, Frances lifted her feet out of the stream and dried them on the grass. ‘I must make shift,’ she said regretfully. ‘The viscount is strict in his hours of dining.’ She could not quite keep the scorn out of her voice as she spoke the title her brother insisted upon using. As the son of the Marchioness of Northampton and heir to Longford Castle, it was his right, she supposed, but to ensure that it was upheld here, in the quiet domesticity of their home, was absurd.

Edward was already seated at the head of the table – her father’s chair, she noted – when she entered the dining room. She gave a brief curtsy and waited.

‘Sister,’ he said, gesturing towards a place halfway along the table. Frances walked slowly to the chair and sat down.

A selection of dishes was laid out in front of them. Frances breathed in the aroma of capon with orange sauce, baked venison and fried whiting. Each was presented on the silver plates that their parents reserved for distinguished guests. Frances took a sip of the red wine that had been poured into her glass and recognised the fine Burgundy vintage her father usually reserved for their Christmas feast.

‘The wine is not to your taste?’ Edward asked, noting his sister’s look of disapproval.

She forced a smile. ‘On the contrary, brother. It is excellent – surely one of the best in our father’s cellar.’

Frances saw annoyance in his face as she turned to the dishes in front of her and helped herself to some capon.

‘It is not often that a prodigal daughter returns,’ he replied smoothly. ‘I wish only to extend my hospitality, to make you feel welcome.’

In my own home? Frances bit back the remark and took another sip of wine.

‘I understand that you had Ellen foraging in the woods this afternoon, like some peasant girl,’ her brother said. ‘Really, Frances, you should have more consideration for her age and infirmity. She will not live to see many more summers, so please try not to ruin this one by troubling her with such needless tasks.’

Frances knew he was taunting her, but she was determined not to lose her temper. He would derive too much satisfaction from it. ‘Hardly needless, brother,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Ellen suffers with the pain in her bones. The herbs I asked her to gather will ease it greatly. Besides, I would gladly have gone myself but—’

‘And heap yet more shame upon your family?’ Edward retorted.

Frances saw that his neck had flushed, as it had in his childhood whenever he was angered. She smiled. He might strut like a peacock now he fancied himself lord of the estate, but to her he would always be her foolish little brother.

‘I wonder that you find it so amusing, sister,’ he continued, his voice now dangerously low. ‘You, who have destroyed our parents’ standing with the king, threatened us with ruin – all to satisfy your selfish desires.’

Frances stared at him, colour rising to her cheeks.

‘Now it seems that you would ruin Longford too. I begged our parents to send you well away from here, to a place where our family is unknown, so that you might birth your bastard in secret. They could have paid a local wet nurse to take it away so that you might return to your duties at court. God knows enough ladies did the same in the old queen’s time.’

He took a gulp of wine and Frances noticed that his hand shook as he set down the glass.

‘But they would not hear of it,’ he continued, so loudly that Frances feared the servants would hear. ‘They insisted upon abiding by their precious daughter’s wish that she might bear her bastard here at Longford.’ He drank more wine. ‘This is our father’s doing. You were always his favourite.’

Frances forced herself to take a deep breath. ‘Longford is my home, Edward,’ she said quietly.

His mouth curled into a slow smile. ‘For now, sister,’ he replied. ‘For now.’

CHAPTER 2

21 April

The smell of freshly baked bread wafted up the stairs, reaching as far as the library, where Frances was in her favourite window seat reading a collection of psalms translated by Sir Philip Sidney. She had loved his writings ever since Tom had bought her the cherished copy of Arcadia that now took pride of place among her father’s volumes. Her stomach rumbled, even though she had breakfasted just an hour ago. The child must be growing fast, she thought.

She closed the book and swung her feet to the floor. Even this small movement obliged her to rest and catch her breath before standing. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw her brother riding along the drive, away from the house.

Good.

Her relief that she would be spared his company for the rest of the day was tempered by envy that he could ride about so freely while she was cooped up here, like one of the old queen’s canaries. With a sigh, she set off for the kitchens.

Many times, as a child, she had stolen down there to watch the cooks at work, their nimble fingers plucking the tiny sprigs of thyme, marjoram or rosemary with which to flavour the meat or sauces. She had begged to be allowed to help, and eventually the housekeeper had agreed that she could gather the herbs from the woods that lay between Longford and the village. Soon, Frances had learned the many varieties by sight and smell, and would return with an overflowing, fragrant basket.

‘They say she sickened last week, after returning from the market at Salisbury.’

Frances recognised the lilting voice of Mrs Lamport, the housekeeper. She paused at the foot of the stairs and listened.

‘Is it the sweat?’ Frances heard terror in Ellen’s voice. ‘Bridges said that two cases had been reported in the town just last week.’

‘She has no fever, but there is a great swelling in her neck and she cannot swallow food or water these past two days. The Reverend Pritchard has already delivered the last rites.’

Frances felt a surge of anger. The poor woman’s condition could hardly have been improved by the rector’s over-hasty ministrations. He would have done better to offer her words of comfort, to assure her that God would ease her suffering, as the Reverend Samuels would have done. The old priest had been as gentle in his manner as he was skilled in his healing. The villagers had been truly blessed during his tenure, even if it made the shock of his successor harder to bear. Although she longed to be able to walk to Britford, Frances was thankful that at least her enforced confinement meant she could not attend St Peter’s. Pritchard’s moralising sermons were as dreary as they were lengthy.

‘Then there is no hope?’ Ellen’s voice brought her back to the present.

‘Not unless something can be done.’ Mrs Lamport lowered her voice, so that Frances was obliged to lean closer to the door: ‘’Tis a pity she cannot be treated by a wise woman, but the priest says such practices are the work of Satan.’

Frances’s heart was hammering. Pritchard had as good as condemned the woman to death. His meddlesome actions would win favour with King James, who had made it his personal crusade to rid the world of witches, as he claimed all wise women and healers were.

Instinctively, Frances pressed her fingertips to the smooth ridge of skin at the base of her neck. The scar was barely visible now and the rest had healed. But she knew that the memories of her ordeal in the Tower would never fade. She flinched as she thought of the witch-pricker’s knife jabbing at the freckles on her skin as he searched for one that would emit no pain.

James had looked on eagerly as his servant performed the grisly task. Frances felt the familiar surge of fury at him, mingled with frustration that she could not attend the sick woman in Britford. The Reverend Pritchard would delight in having her arrested and sent to the king. She would not escape his justice a second time.

But Frances knew she could not stand by and do nothing. With a sudden resolve, she hastened back up the stairs. By the time she reached her chamber, she was panting, but she did not allow herself to rest. She lifted the casket out of the dresser and fumbled for the key that hung from a ribbon about her neck. Not troubling to untie it, she leaned forward and jabbed at the lock with trembling fingers until the key slid into it.

The rosemary released its pungent aroma as she plucked the tiny dried leaves from the stem and ground it into a powder with the pestle. She added a few sprigs of rue and then, more sparingly, hartshorn, binding the mixture with a little oil. If she had judged Mrs Lamport’s description of the symptoms correctly, then the woman was suffering from the same defluxion in the throat that had afflicted the late queen in her final days. Her tincture had eased Elizabeth’s breathing and helped her to sleep. She hoped it would do the same this time.

Carefully, Frances poured the mixture into a small glass phial and stoppered it with a piece of thickly woven linen. Not pausing to pack away the contents of the casket, she called for Ellen. Soon she could hear the old woman’s shuffling footsteps as she made her way up the stairs from the kitchens. Her face was red when she reached the top. Without explanation, Frances pressed the phial into her hands. ‘You must take this to the sick woman,’ she said.

Ellen looked at her in confusion. ‘Mistress Gardner?’ she asked. ‘But—’

‘I overheard you speaking with Mistress Lamport,’ Frances explained quickly. ‘If her symptoms are as grave as she said, then you must make haste.’

Ellen looked down at the dark green tincture, which glistened in the sunlight. ‘My lady, you know such things are forbidden. If anyone were to see me—’

‘Then you must not be seen,’ Frances interrupted, pushing down her sense of foreboding. ‘I wish I could attend the woman myself, but you know that I cannot venture from here. Yet neither can I leave her to suffer, when God has given me the skills to help her – cure her, even.’

Her nurse eyed her uncertainly before looking back at the phial.

‘Please, Ellen,’ Frances urged. ‘I can trust no one else.’

The old woman fetched a deep sigh, then drew a kerchief from her pocket and wrapped it around the tincture. ‘I pray that you will not ask this of me again, my lady,’ she said.

Frances leaned forward and kissed her cheek. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. They walked slowly down the stairs and outside, where Frances watched anxiously as Ellen hobbled towards the bridge, fighting a sudden impulse to run after her. It was madness to have put her at such risk. But she could not let the poor wretch in Britford choke out her breath without trying to help her. No, she had done the right thing, she told herself, pushing down the fear that gnawed at her breast.

Once the child was born and the swelling in her stomach had subsided, word could be put out that she had recovered from the sickness that had obliged her parents to release most of the servants, for fear of contagion. Only those whom they were sure could be trusted remained. Frances had been surprised by how few they were. But she trusted her father’s opinion implicitly.

He had decided that, after several months had passed, his grandchild could be passed off as the orphaned offspring of some distant relative, whom he had agreed could be raised at Longford. In the meantime, Frances would make sure to be seen often in Britford and Salisbury, while her baby remained closeted in the nursery. She felt a rush of gratitude towards her father – her mother too – as she thought of what they hazarded for her sake. Most other daughters in her position would have been sent to a nunnery, their child taken from them as soon as it was born. If her father’s plan worked, she could raise her baby, while escaping the censure of society.

Frances watched until Ellen was out of sight, murmuring a prayer that God would keep her safe. She was loath to go back indoors just yet. Edward did not like her to stray from the privy garden behind the house, which was enclosed by a thick yew hedge, and her refusal to obey had prompted several arguments. But he was not here and she must take advantage. Perhaps she might even wander as far as the wilderness that lay at the edge of the estate, close to the woods.

A chill breeze blew across from the river and Frances shivered. She experienced a pang of guilt that she had not thought to give Ellen a cloak for her journey in case the weather turned, as it did so often at this time of year, with little warning. She decided to fetch her own cloak and was starting towards the house when she heard the distant rumble of a horse’s hoofs. Turning back, she squinted towards the road that led to Salisbury, and could just make out a cloud of dust in the distance. Even from here, she could tell that the rider was moving at speed. Surely Edward had not returned already? No, he did not ride with such skill. She felt a jolt of fear. There had been many such hasty messengers during the desperate weeks before Tom’s plot had been discovered. They had rarely brought welcome tidings. She knew that she ought to return to the house, but felt unable to move.

Gradually, the outline of a rider emerged from the plume of dust. There was something familiar about the slender frame that was slowly coming into view. At least it was not her uncle, she reflected wryly. His girth had expanded in recent years and he rarely travelled on horseback now.

At the long, final sweep of the path he disappeared from view for several moments. Frances held her breath as she waited for him to reappear. When at last he did, she exhaled.

Sir Thomas Tyringham.

She had not seen Tom’s friend and patron for almost a year now. He had taken leave of court the previous summer, on the premise of urgent business at his Buckinghamshire estate. She had barely given him a thought since. God knew there had been enough else to occupy her mind.

Sir Thomas drew up his horse a few feet in front of her, then swiftly dismounted. He swept a deep bow. His long boots were spattered with mud, and his neatly cropped hair was dark with sweat at the temples. ‘Lady Frances,’ he said, with apparent good humour. But though his mouth lifted into a smile, his eyes were grave as he studied her.

‘Sir Thomas,’ she replied. ‘I am surprised to see you.’

‘Forgive me. I did not have time to send word of my arrival.’ He looked momentarily shamefaced. ‘I trust you are well? I heard a report of some sickness.’

She watched his eyes flick over her body, and thought she saw them linger a moment too long on her belly. Folding her arms across it, she said brightly: ‘I am afraid my brother is not at home, but do come inside for some refreshment. I will send for someone to tend your horse.’

Not pausing for an answer, she walked briskly towards the house. Her thoughts kept time with her steps as she crossed the hallway, calling for the stable boy and housekeeper.

Sir Thomas had been one of several suitors whom her uncle had tried to foist upon her. She had thought of their first meeting many times, at the dinner he had hosted in his apartments at Whitehall Palace. But the vividness of the memory was not because of Sir Thomas. It had been the first time she had spoken to Tom. She could remember almost every word of their conversation as he had escorted her to her chamber afterwards. Sir Thomas gave a small cough, bringing her back to the present.

Why was he here? Had her uncle encouraged him to renew his suit, now that Tom was dead? He would hardly have done so if he had known of her condition, she reflected bitterly.

As they entered the hall, Frances gestured for Sir Thomas to take a seat next to the fire. She sat opposite, in her father’s chair. Mrs Lamport broke the brief, awkward silence that followed as she bustled in bearing a tray of wine and sweetmeats, set it down and left, closing the door behind her.

Frances poured wine for her guest, then sat back and waited. She had no patience for pleasantries.

Sir Thomas took a slow sip, then put the glass down. ‘I am sorry for the loss you have suffered, my lady,’ he said, eyeing her intently.

For a moment, Frances did not know what to say. It could hardly have escaped Sir Thomas’s notice that she and his protégé had become close companions by the time he left court. But did he know that they had been much more than that? The earnestness of his tone – of his gaze now – suggested so. Not trusting herself to speak, she inclined her head and shifted her focus to the fire.

‘Tom’s death was a loss to me too,’ he continued. ‘I loved him as a brother and would have done anything for him – as he would for me, God rest his soul.’

He took another sip of wine, and Frances noticed that his hand trembled slightly.

‘You know that I furthered his legal endeavours, putting him in the way of some influential clients?’

Frances nodded, still mute. Where was this leading?

‘The queen was among them,’ he continued. ‘I initiated the introduction at Tom’s request. He and his … friends were eager to make her acquaintance, as I think you know.’

Frances’s pulse quickened.

‘She proved a powerful supporter of their cause.’ He leaned forward, his gaze intensifying. ‘As did I, my lady. It was my connections – at court and abroad – that swelled their ranks, my gold that paid for the house in Westminster, the weapons with which they fought at Holbeach …’ he took a breath ‘… and the gunpowder.’

Frances’s heart was now thudding painfully as she stared at him. Was this a trap? Had Cecil sent him to secure a confession? No. The Earl of Salisbury had greater subtlety than that. Did Sir Thomas speak truth, then? She could not understand why else he would make such treacherous claims, and to a woman he hardly knew.

‘You know, I think, that I secured the king’s consent to leave court for a time last summer, so that I might resolve an issue that had arisen at my estates.’

She nodded again, and he continued, ‘I was not in Buckinghamshire all those months, but in Flanders. Tom and his companions had already gathered a considerable body there – armed men, ready to do battle. I was to lead them across the Channel, as soon as I received word that the plot had succeeded. But, of course, that word never came.’

By now his breathing was rapid and his eyes blazing as he stared at Frances, searching for reassurance – forgiveness, even.

‘I know that I should not have encouraged their schemes,’ he went on, his voice steadier. ‘That it was madness to imagine they could destroy a king and his entire regime. I should have made them see reason – made Tom see reason – but I was too caught up in their fervour, in the blindness of my faith.’

He could no longer look at Frances, but her eyes never left him. As she watched him now, his gaze fixed upon the fire and his lips pressed tightly together, she pictured him as a rebellious traitor. She had remembered him as a mild-mannered, affable man, whose breeding and discretion made him an ideal courtier. How well he had concealed his true beliefs, his true nature.

It was not the first time she had been fooled by a man of the court. Tom’s revelations had been strikingly similar, yet they had shaken her to the core. There was a time when she had believed Tom’s dishonesty had been more than just concealment: it had been a betrayal of everything they had had together – their intimacy, their trust, their love. She knew later that he had kept the truth from her simply to protect her.

‘Why are you here?’

Sir Thomas looked up at her. Frances knew her abruptness surprised him but cared little for that. He sipped his wine, then set the glass on the table. ‘I know what you and Tom were to each other,’ he said quietly.

Frances held back the tears that threatened to betray her. His eyes softened as he looked at her. I do not want your pity, she thought.

‘I know, too, that a part of him has stayed with you.’ His voice was barely a whisper. ‘The queen sent for me upon my return to court, I thought, to warn me that her husband knew me for a traitor, though I had remained in Flanders until I could be sure my name was not among those he still seeks.’ Another pause. ‘But it was of you that Her Majesty wished to speak.’

Frances’s head jerked up.

‘She told me you are with child,’ Sir Thomas said bluntly.

Instinctively, Frances’s hands flew to her belly. How could Anne betray her secret so readily? Had she told others too?

‘You must not be angry, my lady,’ Sir Thomas said soothingly. ‘She wished only to help you.’

‘By betraying me to a man I hardly know?’ Frances retorted.

‘Her Majesty is aware that, even here, you are in danger. Though I am sure your servants can be trusted, it would take only an idle slip to ruin your reputation, and that of your family.’

‘Do you think I do not know that, Sir Thomas?’ Frances demanded, her face now pale with fury. ‘My parents have taken great care in this. None of us is as thoughtless as you suppose.’

‘Please – let me continue. Though nobody but the queen and I knows that the child is Tom’s, if your pregnancy were to be discovered beyond the confines of this estate, it would not take long for Cecil to hear of it. And he would use it as proof that you conspired with a notorious traitor to destroy the king and his entire parliament. You would be put to death – the child too.’

The truth of his words smote her. Though she had known the dangers of her situation, she had been so consumed by grief for Tom that they had lurked at the edge of her vision. In truth she would care little for what might happen to her, should her part in the plot be discovered. She had stood ready to deliver the Princess Elizabeth to the plotters once they had blown up the king and his Parliament, so that they might set her upon the throne and marry her to a Catholic prince. That was high treason. Yet, on some days, she felt she would welcome death as a release from her wretchedness at losing Tom. Her desire to protect the child always proved stronger, though. It was the only part of him that she had left.

‘Then what do you propose, Sir Thomas?’ she asked.

He leaned forward and took her hands in his. ‘To marry you,’ he said simply.

Frances recoiled. ‘You think I am a chattel to be bought? That I could transfer my affections to you now that the man I loved more than my own soul – the man you claim was a dear friend – lies cold in his grave?’

She made to snatch away her hands, but his grip was stronger.

‘You are in great danger, Lady Frances.’ His eyes bored into hers as he spoke. ‘I promised Tom that if he were to perish, I would do everything in my power to protect you. When the queen told me of your condition, I knew what I must do – as, I think, did she. If you accept, I will raise the child as my own and tell my household we married last year, shortly after I took my leave of absence. They will not think to question it – I have been a virtual stranger to

Reviews for The Devil's Slave

[cassiesbooksreader · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The Devil‘s Slave by Tracy Borman is Historical Fiction with dangerous political intrigue. This book is set in the reign of King James and his infamous court. The Devil’s Slave is the second in the Frances Gorges trilogy and the story begins where The King’s Witch ended after the gunpowder plot to kill King James. The plots include royalty from England and Europe and everyone has their own agenda. Suspense, power struggles, schemes and thrills are constant. The rule of that time period is if you have any power or influence you must watch and be alert every minute. Who is next to be sent to the Tower or put to death? Tracy Borman has written another thrilling book with exciting characters, historical facts and unbelievable secret conspiracies. I loved both The Kings Witch and The Devil‘s Slave and look forward to the third in this outstanding trilogy.I received a complimentary copy of this book from Netgalley. Opinions expressed in this review are completely my own. I appreciate the opportunity and thank the author and publisher for allowing me to read, enjoy and review this book.

[lauriebrown54 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book continues the story of Frances Gorges, a real person, which was started in The King’s Witch. Now, in 1606, Frances finds herself pregnant by Thomas Wintour, who has been executed. She retreats to the estate she grew up on, which is now being run by her greedy brother, hoping to hide her pregnancy. Then Thomas Tyringham, Wintour’s best friend, asks her to marry him. He will raise the child as his own. He’s a decent man, and treats her very well, but as the ‘Master of the Buckhounds’ he is tied to the king and this requires Frances to be in the king’s presence frequently. The king has not forgotten her being accused of witchcraft because of her herbalism, and she can’t seem to stop herself from utilizing her talent, putting herself in danger again. I had mixed feelings about this book. Frances acts naïve and selfish at times. At one point, she sends her supposedly beloved attendant to gather herbs for her, so that she herself won’t be caught doing it. The aging attendant goes into the swamp, putting her health at risk, as well as risking being accused of witchcraft. This does not fit into the image of her as a caring healer. She takes chances that could have nasty consequences for not just her, but her husband and child. On the other hand, the author’s ability with pacing, description, and plot tension holds just as well as it did in the first novel. Another four star read.

[wagner5sarah35 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I'm not quite certain how she manages it, but Frances Gorges becomes associated with a number of different plots to dethrone James I and cause upheaval in his court in the course of this novel. As a reader, it's fun to meet a range of historical figures - Arabella Stuart, Walter Raleigh, Prince Henry of Wales, Princess Elizabeth (later to become the Winter Queen). I enjoyed how Frances' story continued and I'm definitely excited to read the next book in this series.